The Life Scratcher
by Sivan IXXX
Summary: He is not a ghost. He is not a beast. He is not an angry spirit. He is the life scratcher. But he also defends it. Tonight, he may have to heal it, one step at a time. One-shot. Connor. Complete.


A/N: Alright, this is a shorty I had in mind about Connor and an encounter that may never happen in the game. But it happened in my mind, so hah. Please enjoy, despite my immaturity. -smile-

Disclaimer: I do not own any part of UbiSoft or its characters, so please do not sue. However, any characters not mentioned in the Assassin's Creed series that appear in this story belong to me.

**First Encounter-November 21st, 1775**

He moves as silent and swift as the wind, his feet lighter than the feathers of an owl navigating through the air. Always alert and ready for attack, he stays low to the ground like the beast that howls at the darkest hour. He is invisible, camouflaged like the peppered moth against the shaft of an ancient oak tree. His prey does not know from where he comes, but they know that he is there when it is too late.

The soldiers huddled around fires have already formed fables concerning his silent appearance, like a ghost only a chance few could see. Some called him a phantom, others an angry, lost spirit confined to the wilderness, and yet a few believe that he is half-beast.

He is not any of those things; rather, he is the life scratcher, the definite of right and wrong, the balance of black and white, but not the gray in between.

It is not anger that drives him, nor is it vengeance, but rather, justice—something his enemies do not know, and therefore do not respect.

But they would soon learn.

xxx

He is occupied with trailing a healthy buck for its winter coat when he hears her. It is clear that she is in danger and that she is alone. The stag is spared his life, and the predator rushes away with the agility of a ravenous creature, maneuvering through brush and fallen trees until it suddenly becomes a jagged cliff overlooking a small clearing that leads to the big river.

He sees the blue coats, the golden buttons and sequins that reflect the light of the fire in the center of the camp. Their behavior sickens him, the way they pass her back and forth among themselves, laughing and jeering into her tear-stained face in their drunken revelry. The woman is terrified, yet she is silent, aware that no one could hear her so far away from the settlements— and not that anyone would care. She is not one of them.

"Pass the Breed to me! I want to see if her blood is as red as her skin," one lazily tumbled out of his mouth. His fellow soldier shoved her into his chest and he held her in one hand while the other went for his knife.

She found her voice again and dug her nails into his face, a trail of blood in its wake, and he yelled out in pain. "You little—" he grumbled before bringing his open palm across her face in one swift motion, and she fell to the snow, cushioning her fall with her arms. Before she could get up, one grabbed her by her hair, while the other wrenched her shawl from her body, exposing what little clothing she had on. He felt the embers forming in his bones, but the time was not right.

"Well, look at this," one whistled. "A little surprise for us." She struggled to get free, but to no avail as another pushed her head down into the snow to muffle her cries.

The embers quickly erupted into an inferno, and he flew, silent as always as he neared his targets. The trees did not move, despite his weight, and the brittle texture of the ice beneath his feet did not give way to his position.

Unaware and inebriated, the man who was to lay her was halted in his effort to undress, as the predator was upon him. A small blade to the stomach quickly detained him and the others went for their guns, failing miserably as their arms felt as heavy as anvils on their shoulders. The predator knew that he had the upper hand, and thus ended their lives swiftly with the tomahawk that he carried on his hip. The air became taciturn once again as he cleaned his blades on one of their uniforms.

He turned to the girl, who was still face down in the snow, and he was unsure of her life. He couldn't have been too late.

Carefully, he touched her shoulder, and she quickly rolled over, grabbing a fistful of snow and throwing it in his face. The intense cold snap locked his muscles into place for but a moment, and he scanned his surroundings for her, hearing her footsteps quickly fade away. This was a game that he knew well enough to know that she would not escape.

Once again, he bounded through the snow, leaping over fallen trees and using the low branches as a slingshot to propel him forward. He could hear her breathing heavily now—too heavy for someone as young as she. Finally, he had caught up to her, and she did not bother to look back, for she knew he was following and swiftly closing the gap between them.

At the last possible moment, he tackled her to the ground, careful not to land on her as he fell to the snow-covered ground. They lay there for a moment, limbs entangled, his heart pounding furiously in his chest until she sat up, glaring down at him with intense, dark eyes.

"How long were you watching?" she demanded in a voice that sounded like the color gray, as if she had swallowed rocks.

Very few had heard his voice, and it was not one that they would forget. "Long enough to know that you needed help."

"More than a few moments sooner would have saved me from this," she pointed to the red mark on her bronzed cheek.

"I had to wait until the right time."

Her eyes narrowed until they were thin lines. "Any time before he hit me would have been better." Her lack of gratitude for saving her from what would have been worse than that slap on the face was beginning to annoy him, but he allowed her to express her feelings nontheless.

"If I had not responded to your screams, then you would have no one to thank for saving you from those soldiers. They would have had their way with you." The venom in her eyes immediately softened, and she wrapped her arms around her body, as if someone had exposed her to the cold.

"Thank you," she said barely above a whisper. He nodded once, and a deathly silence overcame them as neither attempted to break the stare that was now becoming a careful study of one another.

She was a mix of both worlds, and another he couldn't place; this he could see in the almond shape of her eyes and the unruly tresses that appeared as if dipped in a vat of ink. Although he was staring, she did not seemed to be bothered by it, for she too was intrigued by what she saw underneath the hood. He was a child of multiple worlds, as well.

"Your name?" she asked.

"Connor."

She nodded, though somewhat skeptical. "Tallula," she pointed to herself. "But the kind white settlers call me Anna." He got to his feet and she as well. At first glance, one would assume that she was a child due to her short stature, but her silhouette resembled a young woman. Then he noticed something.

"You're bleeding." Tallula examined her side briefly and dismissed it,"I did not feel it before, but I will be fine." Confident, she took one step forward and crumpled, holding her side.

"You shouldn't walk," he told her.

"Then I'll crawl," she hissed in pain. Connor picked her up without hesitation and she began squirming like a fussy child.

"If you keep moving, you will agitate your wound." Huffing, she stilled, crossing her arms on her chest. Her friendly, conversational mood had ended, and her hostility returned as soon as they reached his camp in the deepest part of the woods.

"There are bears everywhere in this part of the wilderness," she informed him, obviously smelling the pungent odor of something an animal had left behind. He set her down on the animal skins and removed his gloves, revealing scars from what appeared to be an animal. Tallula shivered—whether it was from the cold or his hands, she did not know.

"I am aware. That is why there is the scent of urine of a male bear on the trees surrounding my tent." Connor rummaged through his belongings for something, hunched over in a primitive stance, and she glowered at him the entire time. His appearance was becoming more clear as the fire he had started burned brighter with each moment.

"Why aren't you with them?" she asked.

"They would not accept me. My true people embraced me, gave me a home, and raised me. I am sure that is the case with you as well." He finally found what he was looking for and removed some of the dried up root, putting it in his mouth and chewing it for a few moments before spitting it out onto a cloth.

"I never knew my father, but I assume that he looked like you; my mother told me that he was only half Breed, and he told no one but her. She came from a runaway female slave and the Choctaw that found my grandmother. Eventually, they found our village, killed my grandfather, and," she hissed as he placed the cloth on her side, and then continued, "took my mother. I never discovered her fate, but I should not have left her." When he looked up, he noticed that her eyes were wide and wet, but the tears that threatened to fall did not come.

"I am sorry," was all he said; he had lived a similar nightmare. Her eyes suddenly dried, and her lips thinned as she pushed his hands away to dress her own injury.

"Nothing will bring my family back, and I don't need your pity," she spat. He remained silent, watching her for a few moments before he laid down on his pallet, his back to her. There was no use in trying to befriend an angry soul.

Not expectant of such a callous reaction, she snorted and lay down, her arms around her body. The air smelled of a storm, and she could see the white flecks of snow falling to the ground once again. Her shawl would be lost forever, leaving her with the clothes she had scrapped together from a burned down long house across the river.

Tallula closed her eyes, hoping that sleep would overcome her despite the cold, but her body broke out into violent shivers as the wind began to blow, and she was wishing that an animal pelt was nearby. But he had none with the exception of the few that they were lying on.

She curled up into a ball, her breaths white puffs of smoke in the frosty air. Her chest was a brittle cage for her withering heart and lungs, so painfully chilled to the point of tears. But she could not let him hear, let him think she was a weak woman who could not handle the winter cold. So she cried silently, too rigid and stiff to wipe the warm tears away, a vivid image of her mother's warm, brown face, telling her to run and never look back. She wished that they could be together again, in spirit, in mind, in soul. But she could not feel them. She could not see them. She could not hear them.

They were gone, and she was alone.

Connor heard the sniffling of her nose, the constant heaves of her chest, and could even sense the wracking of her body that the lamenting caused. An eagle with broken wings, a wild stallion lamed, a heart crushed with anguish. He could not heal her, but he would not abandon her, either.

He turned over and settled close behind her, the scent of wildflowers in her hair. A few moments after he settled, her shivering ceased, and her breaths became steady and even—the breaths of a weary, sleeping wanderer.

_Tallula_ he thought. '_Leaping waters'. _He closed his eyes and let sleep overtake him as the blizzard continued outside.

* * *

End of drabble. The ending kinda leaves it open for a second chapter, but we know nothing about details in the game, so...if I do continue this, I don't expect any of this to be in AC III. Even Connor's personality is vaguely described, although he sounds more like Altair than he does Ezio. So I came with the approach of him being a right kind of guy, as in he knows right from wrong, he doesn't take advantage of women, he gives them their space, helps when he can, but he doesn't talk much.

However you want to interpret the ending—he wants to befriend her, he wants to simply help her, or he wants to do both and more if she'll let him—is fine. My intention was not to introduce romance into this, so don't flame me for sounding fangirl-ish please. Does it sound fangirl-ish? I'm so not like that.

I used the few details the AC Wiki has about Connor and his setting, so I used snow and pelt hunting as a backdrop. Tallula is completely fictional and represents what a lot of Natives experienced when the colonies began to grow. If I continue, she won't be a character that mirrors the future, like Mugen in SamCham. She'll still be prideful, suspecting and naive, like the brooding teen that she is.

Hope you guys liked it. And more Leila's Tears and Shade of Pink will come soon.

-JuneSnow


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